Chapter Three
H attie kept up a stream of chatter as she ushered them into the large kitchen and family room which seemed to overflow with children and people of all ages.
Ricky could see three babies lined up like hot dogs on a blanket near the window seat. A group of teens huddled over someone’s iPad, and several toddlers conducted a frenzied road race with toy cars up and around the backs of two large and battered sofas. The occupants of the sofa, two women of comfortable bulk and indeterminate age, seemed oblivious.
It was bedlam, thought Ricky. A faint uneasiness trickled down his spine. His chest tightened.
Too many people. A careless accident with the gas stove. A faulty bit of wiring. They would never be able to evacuate the room in time. People simply didn’t understand how deadly the smoke was and how swiftly it travelled...
He glanced around. Exits, clearly marked. Fire extinguisher visible. Smoke alarms. Evacuation plan.
Cool it, bud .
Ricky forced himself to breathe, long, slow breaths that eventually soothed his galloping pulse.
He became aware of delicious food aromas, of Hattie and Silas orchestrating the meal from behind the massive kitchen bench like seasoned musicians. Plastic-wrapped bowls and dishes were crowded together at one end, and Silas was whipping casseroles into the oven while Hattie assembled a tray of condiments and serving spoons,
Ricky’s stomach rumbled. He thought of Fourth of July backyard barbecues and Memorial Day picnics. Of Thanksgiving turkey, stuffing, and fresh donuts.
And what was that wonderful aroma?
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jodi watching him with a wry this-is-how-we-do-things-in-Temple-Mountain smile. Like she thought he might turn up his nose at Mrs. Lee’s turnip pie and old Harry’s famous crumble made from blackberry preserves and those tiny tart apples which appeared every fall. No one minded that there were always a few apple seeds and maybe a couple of blackberry leaves in the mix.
Yup. Now he had it.
Crispy bacon grilled on cheesy baked potatoes, baked beans with molasses, and...fresh garlic, which one of the twins was pulverizing on a board with great enthusiasm. And a whole lot of other aromas which reminded him of his missed breakfast.
“Quite a crowd,” he murmured. “Do you know all these folks? It’s just like a town council meeting—everyone talking at once and plenty of snacks.”
Jodi laughed. “It is a bit overwhelming. Especially if you are used to your own company and your own space like I am.”
Her face was open, relaxed, and Ricky briefly envied her air of quiet belonging. Of being rooted in one place.
Had she never dreamed of escaping, he wanted to ask. Of stepping off the train in a big city where you knew no one and no one knew you, where you could be whoever you wanted?
As though reading his mind, Jodi cocked her head.
“And there’s always someone new to meet. But that’s the thing about the Beechams—open door and open heart. They never turn anyone away. Not that I know of anyway.”
The eyes fixed gravely on his were more green than blue today, courtesy of her emerald top. Minus her hair pins, Jodi had scraped her hair into a relaxed ponytail secured by a rubber band, emphasizing the delicate hollows of her narrow face and the firm set of her mouth.
Ricky couldn’t look away.
She continued. “I once found myself at the table between an Irish backpacker who Silas had found sleeping on a bench in the park, and a former General Motors executive who had just got out on parole for insider trading.”
Ricky stiffened. “That doesn’t sound like responsible parenting. They should be protecting these kids, not exposing them to risks.”
His gaze narrowed. He began staring at each adult as though assessing them as potential criminals.
“You don’t believe in redemption?” The voice at their shoulder was a deep, pleasant baritone, delivered in the quick, clipped style of born and bred New Yorkers.
Jodi turned with a smile. Ricky threw the newcomer a cool but polite look.
“Silas Beecham.” The tall, good-looking man wore a curious combination of scruffy but high-end jeans with a much-laundered UNICEF cotton sweater and a pair of new red sneakers.
He nodded at Jodi and thrust out his hand at Ricky, who took it with a guarded smile. “You must be Ricky Sharp, local hero and according to your mom, most eligible bachelor in Temple Mountain. Big shoes to fill.”
Jodi felt a wave of color creep up her neck. She eased away, a little alarmed at the waves of machismo between the two men.
Maybe it was a New York thing. Silas Beecham might be a preacher now, but the tough, competitive streak which had served him so well on Wall Street still lingered beneath the surface.
And Ricky? Jodi guessed that no one made it to the New York City Fire Department without being ready to literally walk through fire.
Ricky’s voice was light but she could sense the steel beneath. And so, from Silas’ challenging gleam, could the preacher.
“What can I say?” Ricky shrugged with faux modesty. “My mom made me a Captain America costume every year for Halloween until I left for college. And that’s only because I refused to wear The Hulk mask once my skin cleared up.”
His smile was thin. “But I can tell you this. Captain America knows evil when he sees it. And he doesn’t invite it back for supper.”
Silas thrust his hands in his pockets and laughed.
Jodi bit back a sigh. She knew what was coming.
“Redemption is fundamental to democracy,” said Silas mildly. “And to our justice system. If we don’t believe that a person can atone for their mistakes and truly change, we are simply condemning humanity to repeating mistakes. It’s saying...”
“It’s saying that bad people will always be a danger—that abusers will never change.” Ricky’s face had darkened. “And that people who have charge of innocent children ought to be protecting them and not exposing them to risk.”
Jodi looked from one to the other. The two men were almost nose to nose, and she couldn’t help but think about how they were similar, yet different. Both strong, confident men who weren’t shy about speaking their mind. Both successful in professions where there was no room for vacillation or second guessing. And yet the lens through which they viewed the world had set them poles apart.
Ricky was fractionally taller and much leaner, his olive complexion and deep-set dark eyes almost piratical against the stocky blondness of the minister.
“Risk? Is a homeless man necessarily more dangerous than a slick executive?”
The verbal sparring continued. Jodi backed away slowly until she caught Hattie’s eye. Hattie was directing traffic, some folks to set the table, others to bring in the piled plates of food.
“Judah, honey, remind Alma that the iPad goes on the kitchen bench until supper now, and please check that no one has left the tap running in the downstairs washroom. Josh, come here please my love, for you I have a special job.”
Judah obediently unfolded his long legs, giving his brother a not so friendly kick on the way past. Josh lunged forward, about to tackle his brother to the floor when he caught Hattie’s stern eye.
She smiled at him fondly. “Can you get Jaime from her cot? She’s always so good for you.”
Josh’s blunt features flushed with pleasure. He scrambled to his feet, and ambled through the door towards the stairs.
Jodi shook her head. She scooped up a bowl of potato salad and a handful of paper napkins.
“Hattie the lion tamer. Honestly, I don’t know how you get those kids to cooperate. Most people would take one look at their history and head for the hills. It’s like you and Silas go looking for hard cases.”
Hattie hefted a platter of sliced ham. “Suffer the children, right?” She looked like a child herself in an oversize shirt and skinny jeans. Her face was alight with enthusiasm.
“It’s taken a lot of work to get that baby girl settled, and Alma has really come out of her shell. And the twins...well they are what they are. Boys turning into men, full of spit and vinegar as my grandma used to say. But in the end, it’s not that complicated. We love those children. And love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.”
***
R icky made sure he was seated as close as possible to Hattie Beecham. After clashing with Silas, he figured that the wife might be a softer target for his questions.
His head was still wired from what had turned out to be a challenging debate, especially on an empty stomach and a single lukewarm coffee.
He slid into the seat next to the diminutive preacher.
“So nice to meet you, Ricky. Your mom has been talking about you coming home.” Hattie reached out for his hand, and Ricky felt a moment of frozen incomprehension before he realised that they were about to say grace. His neighbor, a rather dour-looking man who was apparently the church treasurer, grabbed Ricky’s other hand.
The sensation of holding Hattie’s small cool hand, the bones delicate as a bird under his large fingers, and having the other hand immobilized by the iron grip of a large and callused palm, was novel to say the least. Novel, but bearable, Ricky decided as a voice murmured a long and indistinct prayer.
“Amen,” everyone said loudly. Ricky had his hands back.
A sudden niggle of guilt popped into his head. He shook his head to clear it. Must be the effect of going to church and then compounding his dose of holiness by coming to lunch.
Guilt.
Guilt that he hadn’t shared the secret—the life-changing secret which alternately thrilled and terrified him—with the two people who loved him most, his parents. That he hadn’t even told his mom and dad about Chrissie, though they likely already knew she had died. Temple Mountain was a small town, after all.
A furious, frustrated sadness crept down Ricky’s back. It lodged in his chest like a shard of ice.
He was going to find his baby and claim her? Sure.
Who was he kidding? Only himself .
“Your folks are so proud of you.” Hattie was speaking in her clear quiet voice. Her accent was pleasant, almost musical on the ear.
Ricky forced himself to focus. He threw Hattie a polite smile. Around them the sounds of clinking tableware had briefly silenced the chatter. He followed suit. The beans and molasses were every bit as good as they smelled.
“Your mom says that you are taking some stress leave from work. Not surprising, in your job.”
He cleared his throat, ready for an inquisition, but Hattie laughed.
“Don’t worry. Just because I’m a minister doesn’t mean that I expect you to bare your soul.” She took some ham and passed Ricky the plate. “I think that sometimes confession is overrated. Too easy. Sorry . But it means nothing without repentance and absolution.”
Ricky was surprised into laughter. Clearly neither of the Beechams believed in small talk.
He spent a few minutes juggling plates, noticing that the treasurer was a big fan of ham and mustard, not so keen on coleslaw and green salad, but couldn’t resist a baked potato with grilled cheese. Hattie, on the other hand, served herself tiny portions which she artfully distributed around the plate to look like a bigger serving.
She was still looking at him, eyebrows raised. Waiting.
Ricky scrambled to make some trite comment about everyone speaking their own truth or whatever bullshit people used to justify moral equivalence these days.
The words died in his mouth. He stared into Hattie’s calm eyes.
“I’m more into the judgment side of things these days.”
Hattie nodded. She nibbled at her salad. “Humans are frail. We stumble and fall.”
She looked in the direction of the children. Ricky’s gaze followed.
Alma and the twins were part of the boisterous group, all relishing the fact that their parents were too busy chatting or too far away to enforce good manners or a balanced diet. Fingers rather than utensils were mostly in play, and there was barely a vegetable in sight.
“I don’t believe that those children’s parents did not love them. But for some reason, that love was twisted or hidden by their own anger or their own needs.”
Ricky felt the grim lines of his face relax as he watched. Jodi was parked at the end, a sticky-faced toddler squirming on her lap while she cut up ham on a small child’s plate, all the while nodding as one of the twins explained something which involved much knife twirling. With a spare hand, she gently lowered the knife, still listening.
She glanced upwards, catching Ricky’s eye, and threw him an impulsive, glowing smile that instantly pierced his defenses.
Ricky’s heart seemed to stop. His blood roared in his ears like the very first time he had jumped into the firetruck, sirens wailing and adrenaline spiking—half of him was hellbent on running into the flames while the other half was urging him to leap out of the truck and run the other way. Out of danger.
Because he saw now, understood in a way which both thrilled every nerve fiber and set off every alarm bell in his head and his heart, that Jodi Ruskin was danger.
He murmured some non-committal response to Hattie. His neck was burning, and he rather suspected that his observant lunch companion was still reading him like a book.
Ricky focused on buttering a piece of bread that he did not want, composing himself.
This was all part of the endgame, he reminded himself. He had come back to Temple Mountain for one reason. Just like he was eating the best food he could remember and chatting with a pastor at a church lunch for one reason.
Hattie and Silas Beecham would be connected to other foster and adoptive parents in Temple Mountain, though it was dollars to donuts that Hattie wouldn’t hand over any information. Not straight out.
He segued smoothly to his own agenda.
“These foster children all come to you through the county Department of Human and Health Services, right?”
“You’ve been doing your homework,” said Hattie. She ate a miniscule chunk of potato salad and crumbled some bread. “Yes they do. Silas and I were over at Rochester before we came here, which is the same county office. The county is the gatekeeper for services like adoption, child protection, residential care, and foster placement, which they call the Homefinding department. We’ve done the training and the home studies and are registered foster parents.”
Ricky helped himself to homemade cranberry sauce as it was passed down the table. His brain was whirring. “It seems a bit...risky, taking kids in as a foster parent, coming to care about them—love them I guess—and not knowing if one day the county might yank them away and give them back to their parents.”
Hattie nodded again. “Love is risky. Life is risky. But here we are.” Her voice was matter of fact, but Ricky could sense a slight tremor. “We are working through the adoption process for the twins right now, as well as for Jaime.”
Ricky stared. It was one thing adopting a newborn or small child, but a teenager with anger issues? Two teenagers with anger issues? Were these people saints or fools?
At that moment Alma appeared at Hattie’s elbow. She was immediately scooped into a loose one-armed hug. Ricky heard lots of breathy whispering, which seemed to be about whether Alma really needed to eat all the salad that some well-meaning adult had heaped on her plate. The little girl smiled and wriggled away.
“She’s a little anxious,” said Hattie softly. “She can’t get it out of her head that she won’t get into terrible trouble if she doesn’t follow all the rules. Her last foster home was a little...strict.”
They were interrupted by a shout of outrage from the children’s table. Ricky turned to see Judah’s arm swing across the table, clipping his brother’s head sharply. Before Josh could return the favor, Silas was on the spot, gripping the offender’s wrist with his huge palm. The older man spoke quietly and earnestly.
Hattie looked a little sad as they watched Judah clamber ungraciously to his feet. The boy’s neck was stiff with resentment. He stomped out of the room. A door banged upstairs, and his footsteps overhead were loud and unhappy.
Ricky glanced curiously around the table. No one else seemed to pay the slightest attention, so he slowly returned to his own meal.
Had he behaved like that when he was a teenager?
Nah .
Maybe . The injustices of life burned deeply in the adolescent breast.
Ricky felt the fleeting touch of Hattie’s cool hand.
“I know, all that...anger...is a bit alarming at first. But Judah is a sweet boy, and he loves his brother dearly. And he is trying so hard to manage his temper. It’s not been easy for either of them. And then of course, their father...” Her voice trailed off. Hattie looked apologetic. “Oh dear, there’s me again, talking out of school.”
Ricky felt another brief pang of empathy for the sullen Judah.
“Tell me,” he began slowly. He stopped, tried to arrange his words in a non-judgmental way. “Forgive me for saying this, but these kids clearly have a passel of problems, especially the older ones. And you really want to adopt them?”
Hattie’s smile was wide and instant. “Yep, as soon as the county allows us, though Alma will return to her mom in a few months. That’s the aim, of course, to reunite kids where possible and to support the family unit.”
She glanced down the table, and Ricky followed her gaze. Jaime was securely enfolded on Josh’s lap, giggling as he fed her bits of carrot.
“Every child, no matter how damaged, holds a kernel of love and hope in their heart. Silas and I...” Hattie paused for a moment, searching for the right words. “We know what it is to be broken. These children heal us just as much as we try to heal them.”
She ducked her head, suddenly shy, and passed him a bowl of greens. Her neighbor on the other side, who had been waiting for a word, grabbed his opportunity.
“Now Hattie, we need to talk about getting that furnace done before winter...”
Left to his own devices, Ricky tuned into the conversations around him. The treasurer was talking earnestly to his neighbor about the need to rebuild the church’s reserve funds instead of fixing the furnace, since it was bound to be a mild winter like last year, and Hattie was now discussing the finer points of upcycling worn-out jeans with a teenager sitting opposite.
“Here, your turn.”
Ricky looked up in surprise. The pleasant-faced woman across from him, whom Ricky recognized as the bearer of the collection plate at church ( who carries cash anymore anyway? ) leaned over and passed him a wriggling child. A bundle of chubby limbs somewhere between a baby and a toddler.
In other words, big enough to sit on his lap and make a grab for his fork but too young to understand why such a fascinating toy was plucked away.
The small, outraged face turned towards him. Ricky was suddenly up and personal with Jaime, the newest foster child.
Her wide eyes locked onto his.
“Hey there,” said Ricky in an uncertain voice. How did one make conversation with an infant anyway?
Her lips screwed up into a tight, dissatisfied rosebud. Her little fists banged a soggy crust against his chest.
Charmed, Ricky couldn’t help but laugh. Jaime stopped. Smiled. The tears disappeared, and she let out a gurgle of joy, bouncing up and down in his lap until he grabbed her to stop her from lurching sideways to try for the fork again.
“That, young lady, is a fork. I take it you missed the safety video,” he said gravely. Maybe this stuff wasn’t so hard.
Jaime thought this was hilarious. She wacked him harder with the crust and tried to reach for his plate.
“Whoa,” said Ricky in alarm. Silas Beecham appeared at his elbow and carefully extracted the wriggling toddler from his arms. Crumbs cascaded everywhere, and Jaime let out a howl of frustration.
“Sorry,” said Silas. “She’s a bit of a handful at meals.” He leaned into Jaime’s grubby face and blew her a kiss. She responded by throwing her arms around his neck and clinging to him like a koala.
“Dadda.”
Ricky’s heart thumped painfully in his chest. He laid down his fork with great care.
Dadda.
He was not a father, never would be. That was reserved for men like Silas Beecham, for whom biological links were clearly irrelevant to his instinctive drive to father the strays and outcasts. For men like Ricky’s own father, who had lived and breathed a deep protective love for his only child.
Ricky? He was a...sperm donor, if that. An accidental contributor who was a parent in name only. And any random biological offspring no doubt was tucked up securely in the arms of loving parents, in some rose-covered cottage on the other side of the county.
His mouth was suddenly dry. Ricky tasted only the bitterness of his own self-delusion.
***
C hief Leroy Browning was a bear of a man who ran the Temple Mountain Fire Department like his own personal kingdom. His mud-colored uniform, adorned by fire chief regalia, was tailor-made to his tall, bulky frame, adding to the Smokey the Bear persona.
He wasn’t pleased to see his new assistant trolling through firefighting sites instead of out on the streets building up the brand.
“You’re wasting your time. This is not some big New York City mystery. I can tell you right now who’s responsible. Some bored kids cutting school,” Browning growled, tweaking the brim of his oversized cowboy hat for extra effect. “Get out on the streets and get your boots dirty. Catch the little bastards red-handed before some public-spirited citizen starts posting photos on Facebook and scaring folks.”
The Chief checked his reflection in the window. There was clearly some official function in the offing.
“And while you’re out there, rescue some cats or round up some stray pooches. Folks want to see their tax dollars at work.”
Ricky mustered up a polite smile, pushing away the tiredness of a sleepless night. After the lunch at the rectory, his mind had gone around in circles until he finally banished the excoriating demons of self-doubt at two in the morning by plugging in his laptop and diving down the rabbit hole of research about pyromania.
He nodded towards the row of plastic bags containing blackened chunks from each of the fires he’d followed up on—unfortunately, long after the firebug had gone.
“I’ve been to three fires now, and that accelerant they are using isn’t exactly household stuff. If it was kids, then I reckon they’d have just tossed in a couple of fire starters from their old man’s barbecue.”
Ricky turned his screen so the Chief could see it. “And that smell is petroleum.” He tapped his finger on the image of a compact red canister that looked like a fancy metal water bottle with a long slender wand and a small black handle. “I reckon they used something like this drip torch.”
“Pffff.” The Chief let out a frustrated huff, sending a strong waft of tobacco and cologne Ricky’s way. “I couldn’t give a cuss what they used. Probably threw an old rag soaked in gas into the trash and added a cigarette butt. See! What’d I tell you son?”
He jabbed one of the bags, where a shred of cigarette filter remained.
“Don’t matter anyways. Get your butt out on the street, nose around. Someone has seen the little bastards. Nab ’em, read the riot act. And threaten to tell their mommas if they get caught again. Nice little story in The Monitor, and the department takes the win.”
Ricky looked unconvinced. The Chief placed both hands on Ricky’s desk and leaned forward. His faintly bloodshot eyes bored into his assistant.
“I keep telling you son. This is a small-town fire department. No fancy anti-terrorist training in case the Russians nuke us or the Chinese send over a rocket or damned Al Qaeda decide to blow up the public restrooms. It took me twelve months to get funding for your position. I got you for three lousy months. Three months, and I do not want to see you internet searching fire starters.”
Leroy caressed the smooth brim of his pale felt hat. “I had to choose between man hours and a couple new hose carts for the fire truck. And a coffee machine with one of them frothers. Don’t make me regret that decision.”
Ricky could feel his face burning. He clenched his fists in his lap. If he didn’t get out the door in thirty seconds, he would be on direct dial to the Far Rockaway fire chief, checking to see if they were still keeping his seat hot for him in Engine Company 264.
Sure, he was better, he would assure everyone. Better than new. Rarin’ to get back on the job.
Ricky closed the screen on his laptop and stood. He reached for the black baseball cap which had been deemed appropriate for his lowly role.
The chilly silence was broken by a loud ringtone. Not their cells, but the large black monster on the Chief’s desk inside his glass-enclosed office.
Browning strolled back inside, leaving the door ajar. He picked up the old-fashioned receiver.
“Yes ma’am. Is that so? Well thank you kindly for letting us know—and yes, we appreciate that you didn’t bother with 911 for such a small thing. You keep well back now—no, no need to get the extinguisher from your car. I’ll get our best man onto it right away.”
He looked up at Ricky, who could hear a female voice on the other end. Leroy winked.
“Of course we don’t discriminate against women at the Temple Mountain Fire Department. Each and every employee at Temple Mountain Town Council has completed the mandatory training to ensure we are an inclusive and diverse community.” His tone dropped into a soothing timbre. “Don’t you fret now, little lady, as soon as we get a suitable female applicant, we will certainly give her due consideration. You can quote me on that.”
The voice at the other end rose a couple of notches and the Chief leaned back. “Uh huh. You bet.”
Another fire .
Ricky felt the familiar buzz of adrenaline. His heartbeat accelerated. He drummed his fingers impatiently against his desk. If Smokey didn’t get off the phone soon, the nuisance fire could rapidly turn nasty.
“Ms. Ruskin.”
Ricky’s ears pricked up.
“Honey. I mean ma’am. I surely thank you for being a good citizen but no, I do not have any official comment for The Temple Mountain Monitor at this present time, except to say that we are investigating and will pursue all options in our commitment to public safety.”
Leroy finally lowered the phone into its cradle. “Damned woman wouldn’t take no for an answer.” He looked up at Ricky. “Why are you still here?”
Ricky raised his eyebrows, and the Chief’s face cleared. “Oh yeah. The fire is down near the new basketball courts near the school.”
Ricky’s mind was blank. What basketball courts?
“Behind the primary school,” said Leroy with exaggerated patience. “Been a while since you were home, clearly. This may not be Manhattan, but we got plenty of modern facilities.” His eyes narrowed. “And if that lady reporter is still hanging around, do not, under any circumstances, share any information with her!”
“Yes sir, no sir,” said Ricky automatically. His mind was whirring as he grabbed his kit and reached for his new black windbreaker featuring the town council logo of a leaping fish. (He had no idea why, unless the fish represented all the young people trying to get out of town.)
A mixture of excitement and professional calm surged inside him.
Finally, a chance to get to the scene while the fire was still burning!
Ricky caught one last mutter from behind him as he headed out the door.
“Knew I shoulda gone for the new hoses.”
***
A familiar figure was waiting next to the still-smoking trash can. Jodi was tapping into her phone, head down, and Ricky had the chance to briefly admire the way her loosely cut mid-calf skirt emphasized her long legs and the crispness of the white blouse under a matching short black jacket.
It was warmer today, the smoky air mixing with smell of damp and rotting leaves.
The Acting Editor’s hair was pulled back in a smooth chignon today, and she looked every inch the confident professional.
A New Yorker would have loosened the top button on her blouse, maybe even two buttons, and then dared anyone to stare at her bosom. Not in Temple Mountain, though. Especially not when your grandpa was a preacher.
“Couldn’t resist that second cup?” Her eyes were cool. “I can just see my headline: Citizen Douses Fire While Council Employee Finishes Coffee Break . It’s only a working headline of course. I haven’t looked up the flammability of hamburger sauce and pizza boxes yet, so I might have to upgrade to Town Saved by Quick-Thinking Editor .”
Ricky laughed. For some reason that he didn’t want to think too much about, his day had just improved out of sight.
Her lips twitched into a reluctant smile.
“Here to serve, ma’am.”
Waving her to one side, Ricky inspected the smoking, pungent mess in the trash can. There was indeed a corner of pizza box. He frowned.
“First thing, never approach a fire without taking proper precautions, and only if it is clear that the proper authorities aren’t going to arrive in time to stop further harm to someone.”
“Gosh, didn’t think of that.” Jodi rolled her eyes. “Thank goodness you’re here, officer.”
Ricky ignored her. He sniffed at the ashes. “And yes, pizza boxes are combustible, though it generally takes a temperature over 400 degrees without some sort of fire starter or accelerant. Fire loves all those oils. And then there’s the chemical coating on the cardboard.”
He poked a gloved finger at the mess.
“Of course, pizza boxes are an arsonist’s best friend. Huh. Definitely an accelerant,” he continued before he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to be sharing any information with the press. And with Ms. Jodi Ruskin in particular.
“Acting Editor Jodi Ruskin with a breaking story.”
Confused, Ricky looked up. Jodi threw him a coy smile. She continued.
“I’m at the scene of the most recent in a series of terrifying fires which have shocked residents in the small town of Temple Mountain. In fact, I stumbled across the fire myself, and alerted our brave town firefighters in time to avoid serious injury or damage.”
Her cell was pointed in his direction, the video function rolling. Ricky scowled. He heard a faint snicker.
“So officer, is this the work of the Temple Mountain Firebug? Another piece of valuable public property destroyed in a crazed rampage?” Her tone was bright, cozy, inviting confidences.
“I am not able to comment at this time,” he said flatly. “Please address all media enquiries to the public relations department of the town council.”
She giggled. Clicked off the phone. “So pompous. Aww, come on Ricky. The so-called media spokesperson is Sally Lett, and she wouldn’t tell her own grandmother her birthday if she could get out of it. People are starting to gossip that someone is going around the town starting fires. Folks are worried about putting their everyday trash in the bins and getting incinerated.”
Ricky gritted his teeth. “No one is going to go up in flames tossing...” His brain searched for domestic possibilities. “Um...burger wrappers, or diapers, in the trash!”
His eyes opened wide. He had fallen into a trap, and not a particularly good one.
“You can’t quote that. Or any of the stuff I said before,” he said sternly. “I was speaking—” he searched for the right term, “—off the record.”
Jodi edged closer and snapped a close-up of the charred trash. “And what about the homeless guys who go through the trash for someone’s discarded lunch or a couple of butts?”
Ricky felt his official mask crack. Jodi was right. This was a public safety issue, and folks needed to know what was happening. Whatever Chief Browning thought.
“Okay.”
Jodi’s widened. “That was quick. Aren’t you supposed to argue some more, so the canny reporter can wear you down with her irrefutable arguments or her clever snares?”
Ricky bit back a smile. He took a last look in the bin to satisfy himself that the fire was well and truly out. He stopped, frowned, and pulled out the heat-proof gloves and an insulated evidence bag from the commodious cargo pockets of his pants. With careful movements he retrieved several blackened pieces and sealed them.
He glanced sideways at the tall, impossibly elegant figure watching him expectantly. Maybe this wasn’t a tenement building in New York or a skyscraper in Manhattan. But it was a mystery, a potentially dangerous one, and it was his to solve.
Jodi pulled out her phone again, and Ricky obligingly rattled off some information and warnings for the public until at last she was satisfied.
She tucked her cell back in her bag and threw him a dazzling smile.
His collar suddenly felt too tight.
He grinned. “Just don’t do a hatchet job on the department or the town council, or Leroy will fire me and replace me with fifty meters of fire hose. And just so you know, I didn’t get a second cup of coffee or even a first.”
He straightened his cap and tried to look winning. “Being a good son, I drank my mom’s brew this morning without asking her if she was still using instant. So the first person to buy me a decent cup of mocha can have their wicked way with me. I’ll be putty in their hands.”
He was pleased to see Jodi’s perfectly made-up face turn pink.
“Well then Ricky Sharp,” she finally managed. “What can I say, except that the coffee is on me?”
***
T he coffee break turned into lunch, and by the time Jodi and Ricky had finished their quinoa and kale salad bowls at Bean & Co, Jodi felt like an expert on spot fires, arson, accelerants, and the number of forest fires that were started by cigarette butts and foolish campers.
Whether Chief Browning liked it or not, there was a major community interest feature here that went beyond the—to be perfectly honest—limited news value of trash can fires. Smoke alarms in schools, nursing homes and disability residences...folks would start wondering whether local authorities had kept up with the county and state fire code.
She made a note to check the date on the tiny fire extinguisher in her apartment. Maybe she’d get a fire blanket too. And have Dougie Moon look through the records and see if anyone had mentioned fires in the past.
Ricky was chasing the last pepita around in his bowl with the expression of a man who wished he had ordered the ham and cheese croissant. His hands were large, well-kept, though the skin was studded with small white scars. One palm had a faint tracery of lines like a spider web.
Burns. Jodi repressed a shudder. Burnt, lacerated skin.
There was a lot more to this man than met the eye.
Ricky caught her gaze. He flashed her a crooked smile.
“So,” Jodi said as sternly as she could manage. “You’ve given me lots of stuff about fires, all great public interest content. But you’ve cleverly avoided the subject of how you plan to catch the people doing this.”
His eyes darkened. He pretended to zip his lips. The empty salad bowls disappeared, replaced by a couple of chocolate brownies.
She narrowed her eyes at the treats. “Attempting to bribe the press is unethical, to say the least.”
Ricky feigned innocence. “It’s all about dietary balance.”
He dug into a brownie with a hum of pleasure. “But yeah, you are correct, Ms. Acting Editor. Short of staking out the trash cans or sniffing random teenagers for accelerants, we’re pretty much stuck. That’s why we need your readers’ help.”
Jodi took a bite of brownie. She almost moaned with pleasure.
Ricky Sharp was a bad, bad influence .
“But please don’t quote me on that.” Ricky’s voice was low and intent. “There are zero CCTV cameras in Temple Mountain—apparently some folks here take the Fourth Amendment very seriously—and the fire department is basically me and Leroy, plus a bunch of volunteers who come running when the siren sounds. And I don’t want to run those volunteers down. They are trained, committed, and most of them have plenty of experience in putting out kitchen fires, the occasional factory malfunction, and untangling a car wreck. But they can’t be expected to do much else.”
Jodi studied the narrow, intelligent face. His eyes were hooded, uneasy.
“But you’re worried, and you don’t want to spread alarm unnecessarily. What are you afraid of?”
Ricky drummed his fingers on the table. Took a breath, and then waited while the waiter re-filled their coffee cups and moved on.
“There’s been a lot of research in this area. Child pyromaniacs—that is, a child with an impulse-control disorder who feels compelled to set fires to somehow relieve the tension—are pretty rare in reality. Most kids, if this is a kid and not some spaced-out adult with a grudge, who light fires have conduct disorders, so the fire-setting occurs along with other socially unacceptable behavior.”
Jodie sipped the fresh coffee. She nodded encouragingly. “So-called cry for help?”
“Exactly. Once or twice is probably curiosity or mischief. But an ongoing pattern suggests someone really disturbed. And clever.” Ricky was leaning close now. Jodie inhaled a pleasing whiff of Old Spice. Probably his dad’s, she thought.
She forced herself back on task. Her brain zinged as the angles came together in her head. The trash bin fires had just jumped to lead story.
Ricky’s face glowed with intensity. “The behavior can be recurring, or periodic. But our firebug...assuming this is a kid, or a couple of kids....” He pulled Jodi’s notepad towards him, and she handed over her pencil. He drew a map with quick deft strokes, and she recognized the main street of Temple Mountain. The drawing grew, taking in side streets and parks. He had a good memory for detail.
“The trash fires are here, here, and here. And now here.” He marked locations across the town with a cross. “And the time window is always between nine and eleven in the morning.” He looked up. “So if that’s a kid, why aren’t they at school, and why doesn’t someone notice them? And where...”
Ricky’s mouth snapped shut.
“You were saying...” she prompted, but his expression had shut down.
She stared at him. He gave a slight shrug.
Her brain began joining the dots.
“Could be someone sneaking out of school or maybe a dropout. Unfortunately, there are a lot of young people who seem to have no place to go, now that the local manufacturing firms have cut back on apprenticeships. And quite a few small businesses didn’t survive the pandemic.”
She realised that she was thinking out loud.
“Jodi.”
She snapped her head up at his warning tone.
“Whatever you write, don’t mention what I just said. It’s speculative, and I don’t want whoever it is to know where I’m going with this. You can say that the investigation is still in the early stages. And yeah, please include the stuff about fire safety. Most people don’t take it seriously until it’s too late.”
Jodi nodded. She thought about whatever it was that he had pulled from the trash, and the words he had been about to say. Trust went both ways.
“I’ll hold back for now.” Her glance was cool. “Just like you are doing with me. But if this is going to turn bad, people have got to be warned.”
She looked down at her phone, which had been on silent for too long now, glancing through the messages.
“You can tell them the handsome and heroic firefighter Ricky Sharp is on the job,” he said.
Jodie ignored this blatant schmoozing. She stopped scrolling.
“Looks like lasagna again,” she muttered.
“Sounds good. As a matter of fact, I make a great lasagna myself.”
Ricky’s voice was light, conversational.
Jodi smiled like the Cheshire cat.
“That’s good to hear Ricky,” she purred. “Because I just got rostered on to cook for the homeless shelter dinner run by the church every Friday night. I’ll pick you up at your parents’ place after work, then, about five?”
Ricky’s eyes were wide. “Cool,” he said cautiously.
Jodi rose to her feet, picking up the check before he could nab it. Work was calling, and she had what she needed for the story, plus some great photos of the handsome and heroic firefighter peering into the trash can. She paused, pinning a stray lock back into the chignon, and fluttered her eyelashes innocently.
“Needs to feed at least twenty people, so make it a big lasagna. And don’t go picking one up at the supermarket, because they use that plastic cheese and the sauce tastes like ketchup.”
Ricky blinked like a deer caught in the headlights. For a gratifying moment, he looked like that wide-eyed and tousled teenager in the pantry who had just discovered that girls were glorious creatures called women and that he—thanks be—was a man.
She strolled out the door with the light heart of a woman who has escaped a mammoth cooking task, and managed to line up another date with a man who was not only the lead investigator in a breaking front page story—but was more than easy on the eyes.